A Shadow the Length of a Lifetime
by Rhapsody Belle
Summary: Pushed beyond his limits, Harry lashes out at his tormentors and takes his first step down a long, dark path. Rated for caution. AU Philosopher's Stone.
1. Prelude: The Neighbourhood Freak

**Preamble**: I have no idea if this is going to go anywhere. I may do another chapter on it, but then again, I may not. It's just a story that's been kicking around my head for the past few days that I needed to get out on paper. The title comes from a quote by Herbert Ward: "Child abuse casts a shadow the length of a lifetime."

**A Shadow the Length of a Lifetime**

**Prelude: The Neighbourhood Freak**

_Clearly I remember picking on the boy_  
_Seemed a harmless little fuck_  
_But we unleashed a lion_...  
_...how could I forget?_  
-_Pearl Jam, "Jeremy"_

A freak of nature lived in Number 4 Privet Drive, and everyone knew. Oh, no one was crass enough to mention it in public, certainly not gauche enough to actually dare try to bring it up in conversation with Petunia Dursley, but everyone knew. There were too many weird occurrences around that property, too many owls fluttering down to roost on the mailbox outside. Too many folk dressed stranger than any hobo wandering down the sidewalk at odd hours of the day and night.

The bolder among Privet Drive's residents often found excuses to call on the Dursley residence, in the hopes of getting a glimpse of the freak, but he was rarely to be seen. The slightest chance sighting of the small, black-haired boy was worthy of a week or so's gossip in the circle's meetings, and whoever had seen him most recently could reign smug and supreme over the less fortunate ones.

Mildred Frump was the envy of the Privet Drive knitting circle, since she lived at Number 6 and had arguably the best view onto the property next door. Even Nancy Wicker, who lived at Number 2, didn't have such an unimpeded view into the back yard of Number 4, for her husband had a most aggravating fondness for hedges, and the one that grew along the property line was especially high and thick. Mildred more often than not hosted get-togethers, which were a thinly veiled excuse for speculating as to the boy's abnormality

And so it was that one lovely Saturday morning in mid-July, Mildred set down a tray of iced tea and finger sandwiches on her patio table and took the seat between Nancy and Anne Gaulter of Number 1. Gertrude Gumpter of Number 5 and Julie Barnes of Number 3 made up the other two members who had deigned to show up today.

Gertrude sat munching down the snacks laid out like food was scarce, carelessly brushing crumbs from her front. Her eyes were fixated on Number 4, where the freak was partway up a ladder, painting the garage. "Always approved of manual labor for kids," she said around a mouthful of food. "Sets right the bad seeds straightaway. The earlier you catch 'em, the better."

Julie snorted delicately into her tea and set the glass back on the coaster Mildred had provided. "That must be why your three boys have turned out so splendidly, Gertie dear," she said pleasantly, and Mildred had to stifle a snort of her own. Prior to the Dursleys moving to the neighbourhood, the Gumpters had been the street's scandalous family, with one son in prison and another a shiftless layabout on the dole. The youngest was Gertrude's only saving grace; he was a doctor up in the city, a fact Gertrude never let the others forget.

"Do you suppose they adopted him from a third world country?" Nancy asked, watching in fascination as Vernon Dursley came out of the house and went over to the ladder. She leaned forward as the man started waving an arm about. "After all, we all know that Dudley of theirs isn't cut out work around the house."

"More the mother's fault, if you ask me," Mildred sniffed, and took another bite of her lady finger. "He's more of a layabout than Gertie's own Donald. Wandering about with those thuggish friends of his." She wagged a finger. "Mark my words, he'll be knocking over shops and doing drugs in a few years."

"No doubt," Nancy agreed.

Anne Gaulter, the only one who had actually brought knitting supplies to the knitting circle meeting, sat with her back to Number 4, working on her sweater. "What exactly is wrong with the child?" she asked. "You all go on like he's a carnival sideshow, but no one ever mentions why."

Gertrude, Julie, Mildred and Nancy exchanged looks, but whatever war they'd been silently waging, Mildred handily won. She was, after all, the one with the best view.

"No one's told you?" she asked. At Anne's negative shake of the head, she leaned forward and lowered her voice, though there were no outsiders to hear her. "It's impolite to speak of it in public, but the boy is _unnatural_."

Anne arched an eyebrow. "Unnatural?"

Nancy nodded emphatically. "Oh yes, dear. Wholly unnatural."

"The cats," Gertrude said in between bites of her food.

"Those owls," Nancy added with a delicate shudder.

"That bizarre way he was left," supplied Julie.

"Pets going missing."

"Johnny coming home with purple hair after a bit of teasing him."

"Those odd sounds from Number 4 last week."

"Don't forget the lights."

"Oh! And the gardens!"

Mildred, Nancy, Julie and Gertrude all shared another, knowing look, then turned back to Anne and chimed, "Those odd people."

If Anne had been sceptical before, she was downright disbelieving now. "Cats? Sounds? People? The way he was left?"

Mildred glanced over at Number 4 again, where the boy had come down from the ladder to stand in front of Mr. Dursley. For his part, Mr. Dursley was gesticulating wildly at the barn, and even from the distance, it was plain to see his face was red with anger. The freak stood with his head down, and for all intents and purposes appeared to be absorbing the tirade. Mildred watched for a moment before turning her attention back to Anne.

"Mr. and Mrs. Dursley seemed like very salt-of-the-earth folks when they first moved in," Mildred said, "nicest people you'd ever meet. Their boy was an absolute delight. Then one night, about, what Gertie, eleven years?"

"Roundabout," Gertrude said, her mouth full.

"Eleven years ago, all sorts of strange things happened. There were shooting stars in the sky, and owls flying about everywhere. Day _or _night, it didn't matter. We saw all manner of very strange characters too. People who didn't even look like they knew how to properly dress themselves! Women walking about in bathrobes and galoshes, if you can believe that. And not just here. _All over London_.

That same night, someone left a baby on the doorstep of Number 4. And ever since then, the Dursleys have been more reclusive than ever. It's like they're ashamed of what they took in that night. You see their own boy around all the time, but that one--" She waved vaguely towards Number 4. "--is hardly ever around. And the _strangest _things have been happening ever since he came here."

"One time," Nancy said in conspiratorial tones, "Frank was out clipping his hedges, and he saw the boy literally disappear right in front of his eyes."

"I still say Frank was on the sauce that day," Gertrude snorted, shoving another lady finger into her mouth. "The man's a lush, Nancy. More than time you admitted that."

"What about Mrs. Figg's cats?" Nancy shot back.

"Who's Mrs. Figg?" Anne asked. Nancy jumped a little, like she'd almost forgotten Anne was there, even though they were supplying this information for her benefit.

"Lovely old lady over on Dunmere Avenue," Nancy replied. "She's a bit barmy, I think, and she has dozens of cats. None of the cats will go anywhere near the neighbourhood children, but that one? They swarm around him and meow as loud as can be. And that," she added, with a rather spiteful look at Gertrude, "was witnessed on two separate occasions by at least three people."

Gertrude returned with a scowl, but didn't say anything.

"I don't know, Mildred," Anne said doubtfully. She bit her lip and finished her row to begin another. "It all seems a bit farfetched to me. Are you sure all these reports are to be trusted?" She glanced over her shoulder with a small frown. "Honestly, it seems to me that that Vernon fellow is a bit heavy-handed with a small child."

"One does have to have a firm hand with the children," Gertrude said. "Spare the rod and spoil the child, after all."

"I think something's happening," Julie said suddenly, and in her haste to put her glass down and stand up to see, she knocked it off the table, shattering it on the deck. Mildred ignored the glass – they could be replaced, after all – and whipped her head around so fast she heard something pop in her neck. Ignoring the faint throb of pain, she stood up to ensure the best vantage of... whatever it was.

Vernon Dursley was backing away from the freak, nearly falling over himself to get away. His frantic scream for his wife Petunia was clearly audible, as was the sheer terror in his voice. Mildred squinted at the freak, trying to discern what had set Dursley off, but for a long moment, she could see nothing out of the ordinary.

Then, she noticed it. The freak had his hands clenched by his sides, and tiny bits of lightning were crackling out from between his fingers. His head was down and Mildred wasn't sure from so far away, but he seemed to be trembling.

"Do you smell ozone?" Nancy asked with a peculiar tone on her voice, a second before there was a tremendous rush of wind and terrifying crack of thunder.

Mildred had time for one bewildered and frightened glance at the others before the world went inexplicably white. She felt the sensation of falling, and then something very heavy smashed very hard into her head and she felt no more.

oOoOoOoOo

..._why's he just sitting there staring..._  
_...lost his entire family, poor lil bloke..._  
_...bloody miracle he survived..._  
_...henry, help me get him out of there..._  
_...blimey. doesn't look like anything hit him..._  
_...only clear spot for a block..._  
_...creeping me out, that look in his eyes..._  
_...ain't no one home there..._  
_...you're at the hospital, dear. do you remember anything about..._  
_... in shock, your questions will have to..._

oOoOoOoOo

"... Rescue operations continue to work around the clock in the search for survivors of the Surrey disaster that occurred shortly after ten o'clock yesterday morning. Though no official word has yet been released on the cause of the explosion that levelled this quiet neighbourhood in Little Whinging, experts are speculating that a gas line running beneath the street may have ruptured, causing the devastation you can see here behind me.

No official numbers have been released, but it is estimated by the rescue workers on the scene and elsewhere that as many as a dozen people may still be missing, buried alive beneath the rubble... or worse. At this time, only one survivor has thus far been located. His identity has not yet been released."


	2. Chapter 1: The Mind's Construction

**A Shadow the Length of a Lifetime**

**Chapter 1: The Mind's Construction**

"_...accidental magic often occurs when your child is upset, excited or angry, and is generally out of the child's control. The stronger the child magically, the more powerful the outburst will be, though any damage caused with generally be negligible and easily repaired. In rare instances, more serious damage to home and family can occur with exceptionally powerful children. It is recommended that you both assure your child that it's not their fault and stress the importance of a healthy emotional balance to lessen further outbursts from him or her."_

Excerpt from _Raising Your Magical Child_ by Marie Seedworth

Chapter 7: "Temper Tantrums and Magical Outbursts"

Deep down inside, Harry knew he had killed the Dursleys. He had no hard evidence, there were no facts laid out to guide him to this conclusion. There were no constables asking him questions, and no one had come to inform him he was, for the second time in his life, an orphan. He couldn't remember killing them, but he knew they were dead and he was responsible. He had no other explanation for the deep-seated sense of relief he felt.

_People protect themselves. That's what you did. _

Likewise, he knew that normal people should feel bad about doing something horrible. He should feel miserable and guilty and remorseful. His conscience should be chewing him a new orifice, every moment reminding him of the details. He thought that it should be parading out images of ... whatever it was he did to make him cry and writhe and drown in horror.

His conscience was indeed quite vocal, but it wasn't shame it was causing him to feel. Instead, it seemed to be trying to reassure him that what he'd done, whatever it was, was perfectly justified.

_It was self-defense. The fat one was going to beat you again. The banshee was going to stand by and watch. The pig would have hurt you later. No one was going to come to help you. You did what you had to do. Why should you have to feel bad about protecting yourself? _

"Because it's what people do," he mumbled, not at all sure he should be holding one half of a conversation with himself aloud.

_Would you rather wallow in guilt? _

"Normal people would."

_Normal people don't sleep in their relatives' cupboards, begging for scraps from the table like an unwanted mutt. Normal people have clothes that fit and friends of their own. You're not _normal_, and you never have been._

He wanted to argue with himself, he really did. But in spite of his intellect – something he'd always had to play down, because Dudley didn't make as many marks as he did – he wasn't sure how to go about it. He couldn't help but think that it would be easier if he wasn't making so much _sense._

_And consider this: if they're dead..._

Harry dug his nails into his palms hard enough to leave marks, but the distraction didn't work. The thoughts – those sweet, forbidden thoughts – chased themselves 'round in his head, gleeful and unapologetic. He struggled with himself only because he thought he should, trying to silence the inner voices until, finally, he _had_ to think it.

_If they're dead, then you're free._

Once thought, it couldn't be un-thought, and worse, he still didn't feel guilty for thinking it. He knew he was being uncharitable and selfish. He knew he should be sad that his aunt and uncle and cousin were dead. He should be upset that his family, the last of his family, were gone. But he couldn't. He just simply couldn't.

_Is it such a bad thing that they're dead?_

"Yes," he whispered, staring at his hands.

_Why?_

"Because," he started, but had to stop. He couldn't think of a single reason. "Because," he stated again. It wasn't much of an answer, but it was all he had.

_They hated you._

Harry denied it, but he knew it was true.

_They enjoyed watching you suffer._

"No."

_They _wanted _you to suffer._

"No."

_They locked you away in the smallest, darkest, most cramped space they could find..._

With the Dursleys dead, there would be no more living in a cupboard.

_... brought along their friends to taunt you..._

Dudley and his friends would never go Harry Hunting again.

_...found fault in everything you did..._

He'd never again hear Aunt Petunia's shrill voices shrieking his sins at him.

Uncle Vernon's angry, red, blubberous faces would never shout at him again.

_...tried to hurt you every chance they got..._

No more feet to trip him near the stairs.

No more ham-handed fists bruising his shoulders.

_But all that's done with now, isn't it? No more Uncle Vernon. No more Aunt Petunia. No more Cousin Dudley and his band of bullies. You've done it. You've stopped them. You're free. Don't screw it up with misplaced guilt over wastes of humanity. _

"Free." Harry tasted the word, and it felt so good he had to say it again. He closed his eyes, with his hands still tightly clenched in his lap, and stopped struggling to think how he thought he ought to, and just let himself feel. Emotions, raw and unchecked surged through him, so powerful he lost track of himself for a moment.

It was only a brief moment, but when he returned to awareness, he found his lips stretched in a smile, and tears of joy running down his cheeks. "Free," he whispered again, and began to laugh. "Free."

_Yes, Harry. Free_, said the hushed, sibilant voice of his conscience, and deep in the back of his mind, he knew it was laughing with him.

oOoOoOoOo

_"... in all of Europe, only members of the Quinn family of County Kerry, Ireland, have the ability to physically reconstruct the events of the past through the use of the Time's Theatre incantation. Why this is, no one is certain. If the Quinn clan knows, they have certainly never told anyone. So if you want this talent, ladies and gentlemen, best be born a Quinn!"_

-Excerpt from _Rare and Exciting Magical Abilities: Have You Got One? _ by Cleo Dallence,

Chapter 13: "Time and Magic"

"Whenever you're ready, Miss Quinn."

Tara rubbed her eyes and bit back a groan. She was tired, she was cranky, and she was reaching the outer limits of her ability, yet here they were, wanting to see it again. As if she hadn't already replayed the scene over and over again. The Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had taken first crack at her, needing to see it twice to ensure their Obliviators wouldn't miss a single witness. Then the Department of Law Enforcement wanted to their Aurors to witness it, to see if further action on their part needed to be undertaken. Then the Minister had required a private showing; following that pompous git had been the Unspeakables, for Merlin only knew what reasons. The Unspeakables gave her the willies every single time she encountered them, and being in their company for close to an hour had not been at all pleasant.

"Miss Quinn?"

She barely restrained the urge to tell her companion to sod off. Had it been anyone else, she wouldn't have bothered holding back. But one did not tell Albus Wulfric Percival Brian Dumbledore, Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot, to sod off. "Give me a minute," she grumbled, wishing for the eighth time that day alone the family talent had skipped over her.

"Take your time, Miss Quinn," Dumbledore said affably, and fell silent. At least he hadn't offered her any sweets, as he had when she had been a student at Hogwarts.

Tara sat there on the crumbled side of the house as long as she dared, putting off the moment where she would have to stand and work again. _Mum wouldn't have put up with this_, she thought sourly as she reached down to pick up her wand from where it had fallen between her feet. Then again, Mum wouldn't be here working for the Ministry of Magic. Mum had better sense than to get involved in politics. Come to think of it, everyone in the family but her had that kind of sense.

The spell was a simple one, a quick flick-circle-flick and two words to intone, but very few people could cast it. Most days, it was a privilege being one of those few. She didn't have the finesse of Uncle Alastair, nor the raw power of her father, nor the sheer reach of Cousin Denny who had once replayed events from the late 18th century to impress a girl. What she _did_ have was a cushy Ministry job, a steady salary and a promise of guaranteed work for her talent.

She thought she might have gotten the short end of the stick.

There was no putting it off anymore. Tara rose to her feet, wincing as the abused muscles in her shoulders screamed protest. She rolled them uncomfortably and gave her wand arm a shake. Her wand, nine and a half inches of rowan with a core of unicorn hair, felt heavier than it should, and she raised it with some difficulty.

Tara gritted her teeth and gathered her waning reserves of magic, fighting with her own magical core to find enough energy to power the spell. Headmaster Dumbledore only wanted to see what had happened at this one property, not the entire street like the other Ministry officials. Surely this would be the last time she'd have to cast this spell today. Surely she had it in her for just once more.

When she had the bare minimums of energy required and had convinced herself she really could do this without passing out, she went through the wand motions with tired efficiency. "_Theatrum Temporus!" _she shouted.

The golden light that arched out over the ruins of Number 4 Privet Drive wasn't as bright as it would have been, were she fresh on the job, and the ruins that rebuilt themselves weren't quite as solid as they should have been. Ghostly figures wavered in and out of existence before resolving themselves as a round, angry man coming out of the house and a quiet, scrawny boy halfway up a rickety ladder with a paint can and a brush in hand.

Tara sagged as the magic left her, and would have fallen if not for the steadying hand of Albus Dumbledore on her elbow. "Most impressive, Miss Quinn," he said, as if he didn't either see or perform himself incredible and rare feats of magic every day. Exhausted as she was, Tara still felt that little thrill of pride that Dumbledore, of all wizards, was impressed with the family's magic. "You've done beautifully. Why don't you sit down and take a rest? "

"Thank you, Headmaster," she mumbled, and sank to the ground. She set her spinning head between her knees, distantly wondering if she were going to vomit. She was grateful she didn't have to follow him to see it all again. She'd heard enough of the Dursley fellow's insults, taunts and threats to last a lifetime, and she'd seen the intense rage and pain go over the boy's face before his magical core had lashed out. Even hearing it from a distance, as she currently could, was bad enough.

She thought she might go back to the family manor in County Kerry after a nap. Just so she could hug her mother and thank her for being a loving parent. And her father. Merlin's balls, she would thank her whole family, right down to Cousin Jackson, blubbering, smarmy blighter that he was.

"Thank you very kindly, Miss Quinn," Dumbledore suddenly said, and Tara jerked her head up. The ruins around her were just that, ruins once again. The spell had run its course, and she hadn't even noticed. Dumbledore offered her a hand up, and she gladly took it. The Headmaster smiled at her, and she wasn't too tired to notice the lines of concern and worry around his eyes. "I know this has been a very tiring experience, and I humbly appreciate you using your talents one last time for me."

"So long as it is the last time," she agreed with a smile that felt lopsided and loopy. "If you saw what you needed to see, Headmaster?"

"I did, Miss Quinn," Dumbledore said. "I believe I was the last on the schedule for your services today. I do apologize for my shortness, Miss Quinn, but I have matters to which I must attend. Perhaps another day, we can have a longer chat."

Tara made all the appropriate noises, agreed to visit Hogwarts on another day to discuss a guest lecture for Professor Flitwick, then sighed in sheer, blissful relief as Dumbledore Apparated away. With the Chief Warlock gone, only the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes were left to finish the mop-up. And they knew better than to approach her for yet another viewing. She was done. Finally done.

She tucked her wand back into its holster at her hip and was reaching for her Ministry-assigned Portkey when a gaggle of men and women Apparated onto the street and began to make their way towards the ruins of Number 4. With a sinking feeling, she let her hand drop out of her robes. If these people were here to have her jump through another hoop, she wouldn't be held responsible for her actions.

It was only when they got closer that she realized they were all reporters. Not one wore official robes of any sort, just badges pinned to their breasts. And the sheer amount of charmed quills, parchments, and flashes from wizarding cameras was astounding. They were being led by a man in brown robes, who would have been dashing if it wasn't for the overabundance of tooth in his smile.

"This is restricted territory," she said when they'd gotten close enough. "Official business only, by order of the Ministry."

The man in the brown robes waved a piece of parchment above his head. When he spoke, his accent placed him from somewhere around Dublin. "We have special Ministry dispensation to be here, Miss..."

"Specialist Quinn," she corrected, hoping against hope that he wouldn't think to place her with the Quinn clan. Quinn was a common enough name in Ireland, after all. "Currently on assignment with the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."

"_Spec_ialist Quinn," the lead man drawled with a brilliant, toothy smile. Tara cringed at the sight of it and kicked herself for hoping an Irish reporter wouldn't recognize her. "I am Hormus Mallory of the _Dublin Banshee_. It's such a treat, such an honor, to meet one of the famous Quinn clan. Heard so much about you. Owled your father once for an interview, but he never got back to me."

"I'll be sure to mention it to him," she said, and turned her attention to his dozen companions. "I suppose you lot are all reporters then?"

"Yes, of course, Specialist," Mallory said. "We're here for the facts. All the facts. The bare unvarnished truth." Tara eyed the number of green Quick Quotes Quills already in use, and sincerely doubted that was the case. "Specialist Quinn, if I may be so bold as to ask..."

Tara recanted her earlier desire to resign at the earliest opportunity. Really, it was moments like this that made everything worth it. "You'd care to see what happened here then? The Time's Theatre incantation?"

Mallory's eyes lit up like it was Christmas. "Oh yes!" he bubbled. "If you please."

Tara smiled, her first real smile of the day. "Sod off, you pack of bloody vultures," she said pleasantly, and reached into her robes to activate her Portkey. She had time to enjoy the shocked, scandalized and outraged expressions of the press members before she was yanked back to her quiet, comfortable office.

As she passed out on the couch, she thought that the memory of those reporters' reactions might give her joy enough to produce her first corporeal Patronus.


	3. Chapter 2: Distortion

**Chapter 2: Distortion**

_He used to be a nice guy_

_Then he cut that shit out_

~ Kevin Rudolf, "NYC"

By the end of his third day in the hospital, Harry was mightily tired of answering questions. If it wasn't the nurses or doctors prodding him to tell them about his medical history, it was the social workers demanding to know how many meals he was used to having a day, how many bruises he could remember acquiring, and what his home life had been like prior to the incident.

Harry dodged what questions he could entirely, and gave vague answers to those he couldn't. The truly probing inquiries he ignored altogether, burying his head in one of the books he'd borrowed from the children's library. One of the two social workers had taken the book right out of his hands, but she got the point three books later when Harry simply left the room instead of talk to her.

The two constables that showed up to get his statement made Harry distinctly uneasy. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but something about the two plainclothes officers made his stomach queasy. He reached for his cup of juice and took a long swallow as the two men, one tall and bald, the other rounder and full-bearded, came into the room.

"Good afternoon, sir," the tall one said, removing a notepad and pencil from the breast pocket of his jacket. "I'm PC Renfrew, and this is PC Morgan. I was wondering if we could have a moment of your time."

Harry said nothing, just eyed the two and fought the urge to bolt. He didn't miss the gun holstered on Renfrew's hip, or the handcuffs hanging beside them. He glanced down at the IV in his hand, tying him to the drip stand, and tried to calculate how fast it would take and how much it would hurt to haul it out.

"You are Mr. Harry Potter, of Number 4 Privet Drive, correct?" Renfrew licked the end of his pencil and made a notation after Harry nodded. "Can you tell us, sir, what happened Saturday morning?"

Harry's unease went up a notch at that question, and he chewed on his lip as he debated how to answer. He considered and rejected half a dozen answers, before he finally settled on, "I don't know, sir. I don't know what happened."

Morgan consulted his own notebook. "We've determined that the point of the explosion centered around Number 4 Privet Drive. Did your uncle or aunt have any enemies?"

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Did they have any hobbies or habits that might account for this?"

Harry blinked. "I'm sorry?"

Morgan frowned a little, and tapped a finger against the back of his notebook. "Mr. Potter, we've been informed that you suffered some abuse and neglect at the hands of your family. It isn't a stretch to imagine that they might have other unsavoury habits as well. Bomb-making, or perhaps cooking up methamphetamines."

"Oh. No sir, nothing like that."

Morgan flipped a page. "We've also reports that your cousin was a proper hoodlum in the making as well," he said. "Did _he_ have any drug habits, or consort with people who might?"

Harry shrugged. "Dudley and I didn't get on," he said. "I didn't know any of his friends that well."

The questions came more rapidly after that. Were there any shady types on the street that he could remember. Was it possible he was misremembering something. Could it have been a neighbour with a grievance against his family. Did his family use a gas oven in any part of the house. Never once did they ask if he had done it, never once did they even allude to such a thing. But Harry was quick enough to notice that they were asking questions that eliminated everyone but him from responsibility.

He squirmed, just a little, but he was certain the sharp eyes of the constables picked up on it. "Why are you asking me all of this?"

Renfrew fixed him with an indecipherable stare, pausing in his note-taking. "Because, sir," he said, "you're the only one left _to _ask."

It was then Harry _knew _with absolute certainty that the constables knew he was responsible. They weren't here to get his statement, they were here to trick him into admitting something. Then, they'd cuff him and haul him off to a place that, according to everything Harry had ever heard, made the Dursleys look like a holiday resort.

_I just escaped one prison. I'm not going to another. _

The dread quietly building within him suddenly erupted in raw, drowning power. Wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and a pressure he couldn't identify squeezed his chest, crescendoing with merciless force until he was struggling to breathe. The lights flickered madly. Machines from this room and others went into a frenzy of beeps and clicks, and sparks erupted from a console across the room. Shouts of alarm and fear sounded from the hall.

_You won't take me!_

Starbursts exploded behind his eyelids. With a gasp of relief so profound it was almost bliss, the suffocating pressure left Harry's chest, exploding painlessly through his head and whiting over his vision. Distantly, he heard screaming, and then a thump, like a body dropping to the ground. When his vision cleared, the constables were no longer where they'd been sitting.

Morgan was thrashing on the floor, one hand clutching his chest and face contorted in a purple rictus of agony. Renfrew was on his knees beside him, shouting for help and trying to keep his partner still. A nurse dashing by paused in the doorway, then rushed in to begin administering CPR.

Harry sat on the bed, the calm in the middle of the storm, watching. Morgan's flailing was short-lived, and it wasn't long at all before his face went slack and he stilled. Renfrew barked something about a pacemaker and a history of heart attacks at the nurse, who was still desperately trying to help the fallen Morgan. Beyond in the hall, he could see panicked patients and staff hustling about, dragging machinery with them, rushing from one room to the next with worried and terrified expressions.

The lights flickered one last time, died, and then came back up.

Harry slid off the bed, tossed the few things he wanted to keep into a trash bag, and slipped out the door in the middle of the chaos.

oOoOoOoOo

He changed in the bathroom, into clothes one of the sympathetic nurses had brought him from one of the charities associated with the hospital. The clothing was second-hand, knees on the jeans worn to faded white patches, but the fact that they were hand-me-downs didn't bother him. Everything he'd worn during his years with the Dursleys had been second-hand, after all. What _was _odd was that this particular set of hand-me-downs more or less fit his frame, and as a result, felt far more restrictive than Dudley's whale-sized cast-offs ever had.

Getting out of the hospital itself was a bit more challenging, but he finally managed to find an entrance with few people around in the basement, and from there it was only a matter of crossing the parking lot and heading down the road to freedom.

The Dursleys had only grudgingly taken him anywhere – and then only because they were afraid the house would be in ruins when they returned if they left him home alone – and none of those places had really prepared him for being alone in the city. The noise alone was deafening: honks and beeps and people calling to one another, music blaring from

His first order of business was to get something to eat, as the constables had infringed on him before lunch was due to be served. He found a section of the street occupied with cafés and open-air restaurants and sidled along to the tables, watching for his opportunity. He was small and quick, and living with the Dursleys had long since taught him how to snatch food from plates when no one was looking. It only took him a couple of grabs before he had almost enough food to get him by one meal, as well as a few pound notes patrons had left as tips on the tables.

He decided not to press his luck as customers complained about the missing items, and the wait staff now seemed to be on the alert. He retreated down the block to a small, private park and slipped in through a crack in the gates. None of the other people appeared to notice him, so he made his way to the quietest corner and sat on a bench to have his feast. The food was far finer than anything he'd eaten before, and half a burger filled his stomach quite pleasantly. The rest of the food went into the trash bag with his few other possessions in case he got hungry later and couldn't find another source. If living with the Dursleys had taught him anything else, it was that you always needed to have something squirreled away, because dinner was never a guarantee.

When the business of lunch had been finished, Harry found himself at odds for something to do. He wasn't sure what boys his age really did on summer holidays. If they were anything like Dudley, they'd probably be out throwing rocks at dogs and turning five-year-olds upside down for their ice cream money. None of that really sounded appealing to Harry, nor did finishing up the copy of _Watership Down_ he'd nicked from the hospital.

Unsurprisingly, his thoughts wandered back to his display this morning, and the one he was certain he'd had three days ago. He flexed his fingers and stared down at his hand thoughtfully, seeing in his mind's eye tiny forks of lightning spraying from between them.

He had read enough of Dudley's comics to know superpowers when he saw one, but such things were not possible in the real world. And yet... and yet he had done... _something _to his relatives after he reached the end of his tether with them. He couldn't discount the hospital this morning either, with that odd surge of energy seconds before the lights went wonky and the constable collapsed. It had happened as if by magic, and...

_Magic. _That word had a familiar, heady feel to it, and somewhere deep inside, Harry knew he had hit the head of the nail with that one word. He rolled it around in his mind, tried it out loud, and found that it _resonated _within him. Magic. Did that make him a wizard then? If so, did that mean he could control that strange force that had twice now moved through him? Could he read minds, fly through the air, speak to animals? Could he move things with his mind?

The thought alone of so many things he might be able to do excited him to no end, and he couldn't resist bouncing in his seat at the mere notion of it. He cast around, trying to find a suitable object to practice on, and smiled when his gaze settled on a pinecone nestled under a tree five yards away. He stretched out a hand, like he'd seen superheroes do in the scant moments he'd glimpsed them on the telly or looked at them in comic books, and bent all his eleven-year-old concentration to the task of making it float.

oOoOoOoOo

Three hours later, Harry was exhausted, drained, starving and exhilarated beyond all definition. After hours of trying, he had finally managed to make the pinecone first twitch, then roll, then wobble through the air to him. He reached out with his right and caught it before it could hit the ground as his fledgling control broke. He grinned broadly and suppressed a yawn, setting the pinecone down beside him as his stomach grumbled loudly.

He dug in his plastic bag and came out with a take-away cup of fries, long since gone cold. But food was food, and he was ravenous. He quickly devoured the entire cup, and started rummaging for the other he was sure he'd grabbed. It took him a bit of searching – he'd nicked more food than he thought – but finally, he crowed in triumph and brought them out.

"You've given us quite a run for our money, Mr. Potter," a no-nonsense voice said from somewhere in the vicinity of his right shoulder. Harry yelped, dropped his cold fries and scrambled to his feet. Behind him stood a man dressed in very odd clothing indeed, but Harry only barely took in the long dark robes, the black, weirdly shiny boots, and the slender stick in his hand.

Already, the pressure was rising in his chest, albeit sluggish and slow. The nascent energies he'd been learning to control over the past little while responded to his fright, and to his great shock, a wavering, less-than-solid, pale red light the size of a lozenge shot out of his fingers and wobbled through the air between Harry and the stranger.

The stranger looked completely unimpressed, and batted the flickering light away with his stick. "None of that now, Mr. Potter," he said, and strode forward to grab Harry's shoulder. "You've given the Ministry enough trouble for one day, lad. Come along now."

Harry had spent years avoiding large cousins and larger uncles grabbing at him, and it was child's play to twist and slip out of the stranger's grasp. For an instant, he debated lunging for the rest of his lunch, but the irritated sigh of the stranger and the strange words he muttered put to rest that notion.

The space between Harry's shoulder blades prickled in warning, and almost before he knew what he was doing, he dodged left. Another red lozenge, this one much brighter and firmer than Harry's had been, sailed past his nose by an inch to impact harmlessly against the trunk of a tree. Harry gulped and decided that discretion was by far the better part of valour. He twisted to start running, panic choking his breath...

... and suddenly, he found himself back on Privet Drive, standing on the demolished front lawn of what had once been his home. Harry stumbled at the suddenness of it all, and stared around in confusion at the ruins. He wasn't sure what was more shocking: the sheer extent of the destruction he had caused, or the fact that, mere moments ago, he'd been somewhere not even remotely close to Privet Drive.

Something popped quietly in the air behind him, but before Harry could do much more than process the noise, a familiar, highly irritated voice snapped "_Stupefy!" _The last thing Harry felt was the impact of something against his back before the world dissolved around him.


	4. Chapter 3: Games We Play

**Chapter 3: Games We Play**

_If you must play, decide upon three things at the start: _

_the rules of the game, the stakes, _

_and the quitting time._

_-Chinese Proverb_

"Psst! Hey, you! Wake up!"

Harry swam out of the haze sleep had wrapped around his mind, groping about before he even had his eyes open for his glasses. With his free hand, he batted at whatever was poking at his shoulder, and connected with something soft and fleshy. A woman's voice squeaked in shock, close enough to his ear to give him a fright, and a brilliant flash suddenly went off, blinding him.

"We have it! Front page!" an annoyingly nasal voice hissed. "Let's go, Nate, before they catch us in here!"

"_What do you think you're doing?"_ thundered a new, female and definitely outraged voice. Harry blinked furiously, trying to clear the spots from his eyes, and watched the blurs streak across his vision, the white chasing the brown and the blue at high speed. Something that left a silver trail hurtled from the white blur, missed the other two by a wide margin, and clanged off something Harry thought must be a wall.

"This is a hospital!" the white smudge screeched, pausing at the void that might have been a doorway. "Not a bloody photo shoot!" She added another few choice phrases and painful-sounding promises, and then turned and moved back in to Harry's bedside. "Bloody vultures, that lot. Dreadfully sorry about that, Mr. Potter. I don't know who let them know you were a patient here, but rest assured I'll find out and sack them straightaway."

Harry arched an eyebrow, still feeling around for his glasses. "I... thanks? You don't happen to see..."

"Oh, sorry dear. They're here, on your nightstand. Let me get them for you." Harry felt his glasses being set gently into his hands, and gratefully, he unfolded them and slipped them on.

The room was violently a child's ward, painted in irregular polka dots and stripes all around the walls in bright primary colors. Equally garish paintings of clowns and animals hung on the walls, and Harry had to look twice just to make sure they were really moving. He squinted at the nearest image, then recoiled back on the bed with a yelp as the most frighteningly friendly clown he'd ever seen waved merrily at him and started juggling.

"Bloody hell! Where am I?"

"Why," the white smudge said, having resolved into the form of a plump, middle-aged woman wearing a nurse's uniform that was at least fifty years out of fashion, "you're in St. Mungo's, of course! Best hospital in Great Britain, if I do say so myself."

Harry frowned. While the Dursleys had never been ones for taking him to the hospital for treatment, he'd never heard of a St. Mungo's before now. "And what am I doing here?"

The nurse clucked, and waved a stick over him. White and green sparkles drifted lazily from it, settling over his body and slowly disappeared. The nurse clucked again, disapprovingly, then fixed him with a stern look. "Recovering from malnutrition, exposure to the elements, and overextension of magical abilities," she said. "I understand there was a bit of escapade that happened during your stay in the Muggle hospital, but we'll have none of that nonsense here, dear. You're going to get better, whether you like it or not."

Harry's mouth dropped into a gape at the stick-waving, grew wider as she spoke, then snapped closed with a sullen cant as she gave him his marching orders. "Yes ma'am," he replied automatically, but silently, he was guaranteeing the nurse nothing, no matter how bright her smile or how caring she looked.

"Now dear, there's someone here who'd like to see you." The nurse glanced towards the doorway and called, "You can come in now, Headmaster. He's ready."

Harry involuntarily turned to follow her gaze, inwardly seething over the assumption that he _wanted _to see anyone and was rewarded by the sight of one of the oldest men he'd ever seen, with a beard like a hermit and dressed like it were Halloween, step into the room. The clown on the wall started juggling ferociously, and the unicorns and other strange creatures pranced across the painted walls to dance on either side of the door. It was completely absurd, completely barmy, and Harry was suddenly of the impression that _maybe magic is a bit too insane for me. _

"Hello, Mr. Potter," the old man said with a faint smile, regarding him over the tops of half-moon spectacles. "I'm glad to see you so well. My name is Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I do apologize for my delay in reaching you, but you've been curiously hard to track these last few days. There are... matters we must discuss."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "And what would those things be?" he asked suspiciously.

The old man looked saddened for a moment. "Ah Harry," he said. "I believe you know that to which I am referring." And Harry felt the same sinking, twisting feeling that always preceded a Dursley punishment – deserved or not – settle into the pit of his stomach.

He supposed blowing up your neighbourhood and causing blackouts at hospitals couldn't go without consequence, after all.

"You've had a few unfortunate incidents with what wizards call 'accidental magic', Mr. Potter," Dumbledore said, moving into the room to sit on the edge of the bed. "It's quite common, especially before any formal education when the child is still unsure of their control on their magic. Magical families of course know what signs to watch out for, and can contain the outbursts as best they can, but Muggle families don't often have that forewarning, and as such, unfortunately have more severe side-effects than magical families."

Both of Harry's eyebrows were trying to disappear into his hairline as he stared at the old wizard. Did the old coot think he was following any of this? Well, he supposed he was following clearly enough the bits about magical families and children who didn't know how to control it, and he'd felt enough of that strange, almost drowning, sensation to believe the old man when he spoke of magic, but accidental magic? Muggles? While he could make some assumptions and figure the terms out for himself, the fact that he had to when he was so obviously new to them rankled, and Harry found his initial ambivalence towards the man deepening into dislike.

Dumbledore seemed to read something in his face, for he just nodded with another little "ah". "I see your guardians didn't see fit to tell you of your heritage," he said. "For that, I apologize." Harry opened his mouth to retort that the only heritage he'd ever heard of was _freak, drunken unemployed shifters _and even occasionally _slut _when Aunt Petunia had a little too much Schnapps and ranted about Harry's mum. But the old man went blithely on, ignoring the signs that Harry wanted to speak. "Your mother and father, Mr. Potter, were a witch and a wizard, respectively, and that by extension makes you a wizard. As such, you are capable of great things, Mr. Potter, great things.

"On the topic of your recent accidents..."Wizards have to be very careful with the power they have," the old man said gravely, and it sounded so much like the beginning of a lecture, Harry immediately tuned out the words that followed. He'd had enough raving lectures from Uncle Vernon to know how to look like he was listening sullenly, even making appropriate-sounding noises from time to time, without actually paying attention.

"...but it won't be held against you, Mr. Potter, especially in light of other information recently surfaced about your living conditions." Harry nodded, as if he'd been listening the entire time. He chanced a glance at Dumbledore, and was surprised to see a faintly disapproving frown on the old man's face. Harry squirmed under that frown, and wondered if Dumbledore knew he hadn't been listening. He'd have to work on that, if that was the case.

"As you are still a minor," Dumbledore said, the frown clearing, "you will have to go to a foster family until you come of age." Harry bit back a sigh, and choked down the urge to have a bit of "accidental magic" and nick out the side door at the thought of _another_ family to deal with. The only thing that stopped him was a certain feeling that Dumbledore wouldn't let him get away with anything of that sort. "But that isn't something that has to be decided so soon," the old man continued. "With the school year beginning so soon..."

"Wait, what?" Harry squirmed again. Nothing had changed in Dumbledore's expression, but Harry suddenly felt very small under his gaze. "Err... sorry, but what do you mean by _school year_?"

"Ah, of course." And without another word, the old man was rainbows and smiles again. He dug into his robes and pulled out a cream-colored envelope, bearing a strange seal on the back and an address written on the front in green ink. Harry took it slowly, and turned it over in his hands. His name and what was presumably his room number at St. Mungo's were written on the front in emerald green ink. "Your name has been on the rolls at Hogwarts since the day you were born. Your parents wanted nothing more than for their son to attend the same school they did.

Dumbledore seemed lost in thought for a moment, then smiled and rose to his feet. "Now," he said, "on the matter with your guardianship... With the school year beginning soon, there's no reason to rush placing you with another family, and given your ... unique circumstances, I expect the selection process would have to be very stringent indeed. Do try to enjoy the rest of your summer, Mr. Potter, for I fear you'll find your free time sorely limited once you begin school. Our professors are known for piling on the homework, I'm afraid."

"And what am I to do until this school begins?" he asked. "Rent a room somewhere?"

Dumbledore beamed. "Capital idea, Mr. Potter! I think that solution would suit this situation quite well. We'll arrange to rent rooms at the Leaky Cauldron for the remaining weeks of August."

Harry frowned and fiddled with the seal of the envelope, trying to puzzle out the catch. It sounded, for all the world, like Dumbledore had the authority to and, more importantly, _was_ going to give him free reign for the rest of the summer, what few weeks were left of it anyway. But Harry knew that nothing like that ever came without a hitch, without a price. That was discounting the fact that he'd be shipped off to a family he didn't know (and frankly, didn't care to know) at the end of the school year. "By myself?" he asked suspiciously.

"I'm afraid you won't quite be by yourself; as I'm sure you can appreciate, you are well-known in our world, and it would be foolhardy to leave you without someone to watch over you while you're here."

And there it was. The catch, the price. The hitch. He had free reign to do as he liked, as long as his guardian approved of it.

Still, it was better than spending the rest of the summer at an orphanage, or being on the streets.

"Alright," he muttered, fingering the cover of his book. "I suppose."

"Excellent!" The old man beamed and clapped his hands together, like he was a two-year-old pleased with some treat given or trick performed. He began rummaging around in his pockets, and finally came up with a set of slightly crumpled parchments which he promptly offered to Harry. "

"Do you have any questions, Mr. Potter?"

Harry glanced up at the man, eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Oh yes, he had questions. He had scores of questions tumbling around in his head, ranging from "what were my parents like" to "what else besides blow things up and short out machines can I do with magic". Questions about how the wizarding world was run, the history of this Hogwarts place he was expected to attend, and how wizards were expected to behave in general.

He thought about what question he wanted answered first, mulled it over a bit, and finally settled on one after deciding that, for all his disclosure, the old man probably wouldn't tell him what he really wanted to know on the grounds that he was just a child and children never got told the really important stuff.

"Yes sir," he said. "Where can I find the nearest book shop?"

oOoOoOoOo

_**Boy-Who-Lives on His Deathbed!**_  
**By: Rita Skeeter**  
**Photographs: Nate Dewell**

After nearly ten years, the Boy-Who-Lived has finally resurfaced in our world, appearing rather abruptly yesterday at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries in the care of an unnamed companion.

"Awful mess, the way that boy was brought in," said one medi-witch at St. Mungo's, who declined to be identified. "Had to be carried, to be sure, and he had some right nasty spell damage. Took us awhile to make sense of it all. If you ask me, he got tangled up again with Dark Wizards, and paid for it, poor soul."

Asked about the mysterious man who brought the Boy-Who-Lived in for medical attention, our source could only say this: "Quiet type, that one. Didn't say more'n he had to. Puts me to mind of an Unspeakable, really. We get that lot in here all the time for all sorts of reasons."

Harry Potter, also known as the Savior of the Wizarding World, was responsible for the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named nearly ten years ago, and since that night has been missing, despite top-level governmental assurances that he was indeed well-cared for.

Suddenly appearing at St. Mungo's in the company of an Unspeakable as he did brings many questions to mind, but none so burning as _where has he been all this time? _Sources speculate that, given the events of yesterday, it's entirely likely Harry has been in the care of the Department of Mysteries since the night he defeated You-Know-Who

"He survived the Killing Curse," stated one such source, who also declined to be identified. "Of _course_ the Unspeakables would want to study that! And what more secure place to place him than the Ministry of Magic itself? He could get lots of training down there, in case You-Know-Who ever comes back. If they didn't drive him mad, that is. Who knows what the Unspeakables get up to in that basement of theirs?"

Answers to all these questions are sure to be forthcoming from the Minister of Magic, now that Harry Potter has rejoined wizarding society. In the meantime, we at the _Daily Prophet _offer young Harry our best wishes and fervent prayers for a swift recovery, and hope that his time with the Department of Mysteries hasn't damaged him too badly.

oOoOoOoOo

By the time August was drawing to a close, Harry was well and thoroughly sick of what passed for the wizarding society of Britain. It wasn't any one particular thing he could point at and say, "That, that's the problem." It was more of a conglomerate of things, really, that all added up or, rather, _didn't_ add up to a healthy, functional society.

Harry wasn't sure he was particularly qualified to decide what a healthy and functional society was, but he was pretty sure he knew what it wasn't. By the time he finished half of the dozen or so books he'd purchased on wizarding history, he had managed to piece together a picture of the way wizards did business, and it wasn't pleasant.

He put down his copy of _The Ascension of the Modern Wizard: A history of 20th century wizarding_, capped his ink bottle and rubbed his eyes. He picked up the half-eaten sandwich Tom, the proprietor of the Leaky Cauldron, had brought him up two hours ago and munched on it as he looked over the notes he'd taken.

There was no one book that could give him anywhere near a complete idea of the secret history of wizards, he realized before he'd even finished the first book, so he'd promptly gone out and bought a ledger in which he could keep track of important events as he read about them.

He shook his head as he read again over the list of rebellions by magical creatures, uprisings of the goblin clans – who _still _controlled the wizarding banks, no less, even after they'd proven time and time again they couldn't be trusted – and interactions with the Muggle world in the last century alone. None of the incidents were really all that bad taken by themselves, but taken as a whole, they painted a very stark and shocking picture of the world that crazy old man wanted him to be the saviour of.

Which was another thing. He also read about his parents' fate, and the mysterious circumstances surrounding his orphaning in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_, about the betrayal by Sirius Black and his eyes narrowed when he read the line, "Albus Dumbledore took charge of young Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and placed him with great secrecy in a home, he assured authorities, that would ensure Mr. Potter's utmost safety." The Dursleys, safe? Ha! Shows what the old coot knew after all.

_Hogwarts: A History_ had proven to be just as shocking when taken in context with the rest of the books, piecemealed tales of Forbidden Forests filled with dangerous magical creatures that had severely injured students over the years, and crazyquilted stories of secret chambers underneath the school filled with even _more_ dangerous and mysterious beasts that actually _killed _a girl nearly fifty years ago. And still, the school went merrily on, the doors only sealing completely for a month that summer to search for the chamber, but opened again that September with the source of all the trouble still undiscovered.

Harry tapped his fingers pensively on the ledger and eyed the application packets resting on the desk beside his books and his notes. After his research, he wasn't at all sure if he wanted to go to Hogwarts, and equally sure he had other options. A little more research had turned up a plethora of schools, and a week ago, he'd written to several of them asking about their entrance requirements and their transfer policies.

The flowery letterhead of the French school Beauxbatons contrasted nicely with the dark and jagged Durmstrang seal, still unbroken on the black envelope. He pushed those aside and considered the others that had come in over the last two days. Idly, he broke the foxhead seal of the Foxton Academy for Wizardcraft in the United States and spilled pictures of a sunny, modern campus filled with laughing students and professors in stylish Muggle clothing.

..._would be delighted to offer a spot in our program to the scion of the British Potter line... Should Mr. Potter wish to try out his parents' alma mater, we at Foxton have no qualms holding a place for him until next year when he can make a more informed decision as to the future of his magical education..._

Harry pursed his lips and carefully stuffed the brochures and acceptance letter back into the envelope. He broke open the rest, to see much the same results. Beauxbatons would gladly offer him a spot, this year or the next. Durmstrang's letter was a little vaguer, but Harry got the impression they'd likewise love to get their hands on him. The Royal College of Wizards and Witches of Canada, the Escuela de Magica de Madrid and the Grecian Chaldean Collegiate all said similar things in their letters.

Harry sighed and looked again at _Hogwarts: A History _sitting closed atop his notes_._ He looked again at the acceptance letter and supply list Headmaster Dumbledore had handed him three weeks ago. He thought again about being told that his parents wanted nothing more from him than to attend the same school they had met at, and been happy attending. He looked again at the half dozen acceptance letters from other schools on his desk, then resolutely stacked them and tucked them away inside his mostly-packed trunk under his socks and undies.

None of the schools stated, after all, he had to make his decision so quickly, and virtually all of them were willing to accept transfers, at least ones that came with him attached. If Hogwarts proved to be a dangerous or unsuitable school, well... he had other options open.

He'd barely gotten the letters put away when there was a perfunctionary knock at his door a second before it opened. Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts and the man the old coot had assigned to be his minder during the last weeks of August, poked his massive head in the door. Harry rolled his eyes and locked his trunk.

"Almos' time ter go, Harry," he rumbled and Harry wasn't thrilled to see he'd brought along that hideous pink umbrella and was waving it excitedly around. "Time ter 'ead ter King's Cross an' get on tha Hogwarts Express!"

Harry arched an eyebrow as he laced on his trainers. "And will I be mobbed this time?" he asked. At Hagrid's look, he sighed. "It's a fair question, Hagrid. The trip to get my school supplies should prove that."

Hagrid looked taken aback for a moment, then he shook his bristly head. "Ye can' blame folks fer wantin' ter see the Boy-Who-Lived after ye'd been gone fer so long, Harry. Yer the one what saved 'em from You-Know-Who, an' they want to show their appreciation for that."

"Battering me around until my wand broke was not appreciation," Harry muttered, tying his left trainer with a vicious jerk. "Patting me on the back and yelling out for their friends to come see was not appreciation. Nearly shaking my arm out of its socket was not appreciation. I had bruises for days, Hagrid. _And _I had to go back and speak to that creepy Ollivander about a new wand."

Hagrid didn't seem to know what to say, and just stayed silent as Harry finished with his shoes and threw the last few things in his carryon. He stepped forward and grabbed the handle of the oversized trunk before Harry could do much more than look at it.

"I'll get this," he said, and there was a sad tone in his voice, like a heartbroken child. Harry bit back a nasty comment that rode the tip of his tongue and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his summer jacket. It wasn't Hagrid's fault, after all; the man was a bit simpleminded, and far too large to consider that a bit of jostling might be harmful to anyone, let alone Harry, still on nutrient potions to help counter his years of malnutrition.

"I got ya somethin', Harry," Hagrid said quietly as they left the stairwell and went out into the bar proper.

Harry looked up at him in surprise. "Got me something? For what?"

"Yer birthday." Hagrid rubbed the back of his neck and looked chagrined. "Bit shameful ter say, but I reckon I forgot yer birthday there a few weeks ago. So, I stopped by a shop in Diagon Alley on my way here, and...Well, short be long, I gave it ta Tom an' he has it fer ya behind the bar. Jes' go an' ask 'im fer it, a'right?"

"Alright..." Harry cautiously approached the bar where Tom was cleaning glasses, glancing behind every few steps to find Hagrid watching him intently. It was rather unsettling, knowing what sorts of things Hagrid liked. He had ample time to get to know the man over the last few weeks, and Harry wouldn't at all have been surprised to find a baby dragon with a bow on its neck waiting for him behind the bar.

"Excuse me, Tom? Hagrid says there's something for me here?"

Tom's weathered face cracked in a smile, and he set down his rag and glass. "Ah yes, Mr. Potter. Mr. Hagrid did indeed ask me to hold something for you until you were ready to go. I'll just be a moment."

Harry shifted from foot to foot as Tom disappeared into the storeroom, and only just restrained himself from tapping his fingers impatiently. When the barman came back, however, all thoughts of annoyance fled as he stared at the snowy owl in the cage Tom held carefully between his hands.

"Is that for me?" he asked, quite witlessly he would later think. Even before Tom was in front of him, he had his hands outstretched for the cage, and when it was offered, he took it reverently. With a huge smile, he turned back around to look at Hagrid, whose intense expression had softened into simple pleasure. "You remembered."

"Aye," Hagrid said, hefting the trunk once again. "Ye spent so long starin' into Eeylops, I thought ye might like an owl of yer own. A few weeks late, I admit, but..."

"No no!" Harry laughed, and reached through the bars of the cage to stroke the soft feathers. The owl hooted quietly and nipped at his fingers, nudging them to another spot on her back. "It's perfect," he declared. "Just perfect."


	5. Chapter 4: Organized Chaos

**Chapter 4: Organized Chaos**

"_The secret of all victory lies in the organization of the non-obvious."_

_-Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor_

Despite himself, Harry reached out to touch the bright red steam engine of the Hogwarts Express. The metal gleamed in the sun and was warm to the touch, and Harry couldn't help a delighted laugh as he ran his hand over it. He'd had an obsession with trains a few years back, going so far as to pilfer an old, nearly destroyed train set from Dudley's room of broken things and smuggling it into his cupboard. He'd spent hours there after the Dursleys had gone to sleep playing trains under the single bare bulb, imagining stations and people and cargo for his valiant little engine to pull.

At least, he'd played until Uncle Vernon had caught him and punished him for "breaking" the train set.

With a fond pat of the cherry-red engine, he moved along, pushing his luggage trolley down the line to where a baggage handler was loading them into the cargo car. With a little trepidation, he handed over Hedwig's cage, received several reassurances that, yes, the cargo car was indeed set up to safely transport pets and familiars, and slung his satchel over his shoulder as he went to the nearest passenger car to board. Even still, he kept looking over his shoulder to make sure Hedwig was going to be alright. For her part, his owl handled the transfer with great aplomb, not even raising her head from under her wing as she was tucked away in the depths of the car.

Harry said his goodbyes to Hagrid at the door, and climbed onto the train. The noise of the crowded platform outside gave way to a new sort of noise, as boisterous returning students and nervous first years combined to give the car a low rumble all its own. He pushed his way past several groups of older students who were apparently reuniting after a summer apart in the middle of the damned hall, and practically fell into the first near-empty compartment he found.

"Blimey!" the compartment's sole occupant, a redheaded boy with freckles and a dirt-smudged nose, exclaimed as he helped Harry to his feet. "You've really got to watch the feet around here."

"Tell me about it," Harry grumbled, dusting off his robes. "It's a nuthouse out there. Didn't figure it'd be like this."

The other boy laughed. "First year?"

"Yeah. You?"

The boy nodded. "But I've got the inside track," he confided a second later. "I've got five brothers who've gone ahead of me, so I figure I might have a bit of an easier time with it." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Ron Weasley."

Harry shook it. "Harry Potter."

"Bloody hell!" the redhead said, eyes flying wide open and they fixed on a spot somewhere just above Harry's eyebrows. His grin widened into frightening proportions. "You're Harry Potter! Can I see your scar, mate?"

Whatever good feeling Harry had been having towards the other boy instantly fled as he recognized signs of what he'd privately begun calling "Boy-Who-Lived Syndrome". He'd been through enough mobs in Diagon Alley in August to want to have nothing to do with anyone who gaped at him as though he were a combination of a carnival sideshow freak and a mythical savior come to life. Without another word, he dropped Ron's hand like it was scalding hot and turned to leave.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Ron cried, a dumbfounded look on his face.

"To find another compartment," Harry said shortly. He ignored the protests from the idiot who obviously didn't understand a single thing about courtesy, and slid outside the door. As he was turning to close it behind him, he spared Ron a scathing look. "And I'm not your mate."

He heard the door slide open again behind him, and the redhead's voice calling "Harry!" but he didn't stop or turn around. He stalked down the hall of the car, passing by a bushy-haired girl with rather large front teeth who stopped him briefly to ask something about a toad, then he found a relatively empty compartment that had only another satchel inside at the back of the car.

He threw his own satchel into the corner of the free bench and sat beside it with a huff. A low headache was beginning to throb in the back of his head, and he sighed as excited children ran down the hall, followed closely by an older student shouting at them to stop running immediately.

It was going to be a long train ride.

oOoOoOoOo

A few hours later, he was wondering if he'd been better off with the redhead nearer the front of the car. The owner of the other satchel had shown up with a friend, and his travelling companions turned out to be the bushy-haired girl, and a skittish boy with overlarge ears. His headache had only gotten worse as the girl, introduced as Hermione Granger, raved on and on about all the wonderful things Hogwarts had to offer, and how many spells she'd successfully tried out so far, citing title after title of all the books she'd read to back up her theories.

The boy, Neville Longbottom, turned out to be the boy who was missing the toad, who still hadn't turned up despite Hermione's assurances that she'd looked high and low. He also didn't prattle on about anything – a fact for which Harry was incredibly grateful – and merely sat across from Harry with his head more or less between his legs, looking sicker and sicker the closer the train got to Scotland. Harry kept an eye on him, mostly out of worry Neville would sick up on his trainers, but eventually real concern wore out idle curiosity.

With an irritated wave, he cut off Hermione's latest tirade about how Gryffindor was the greatest House, because it had been Headmaster Dumbledore's affiliation nearly a century ago, and leaned forward to tap Neville on the knee. "Hey mate? You don't look so good. Are you going to be alright?"

Neville jerked as Harry touched him and, with a girlish yelp, ended up falling off the bench and onto the floor. The greenish color deepened as he scrambled back to his seat. "I-I'm fine," he said. "I just… I just don't travel well."

"You need chocolate," Hermione said promptly, and produced a still pristinely-wrapped bar from the depths of her cloak. She held it out expectantly, then looked defensive when Harry just eyed her like he'd eye a crazy person. "What? It's wizarding chocolate. It's good for nerves."

Harry glanced back to Neville. He wasn't sure why he cared about the other boy; perhaps there was something in his pathetic demeanour that sharply reminded him of his own years in the Dursley household. He wasn't underfed, or dressed in rags, but he definitely had the same cowed and defeated look Harry remembered having on so many occasions. With a sigh, he took the chocolate out of Hermione's hand and tore open the wrappings, pressing a large chunk into Neville's hand.

Harry went back to eying Hermione as Neville ate the chocolate, glancing every so often at the other boy to see how his color was faring. The healthier Neville's complexion got, the smugger Hermione looked. Finally, it reached a point where Harry could take it no more. "Yes, Hermione," he said bitingly. "You know a fair bit more than other people. You don't have to be quite so insufferable about it, you know."

Hermione flushed, and her mouth dropped open indignantly. "Excuse me?" she huffed. "Insufferable? Me?"

Harry rubbed his temples again, wishing he had some of those lovely pain potions one of the nurses had given him at St. Mungo's. "Yes," he said through gritted teeth. "I understand that you're excited to be a witch. What normal person wouldn't be? But you're not going to make friends lording your knowledge over everyone else."

Hermione's mouth opened and closed like a codfish, and her face went positively scarlet.

"And for your information," Harry continued before she could get a word in edgewise, "I've also read _Hogwarts: A History_, and I see nothing laudable about being in a House that values pigheaded recklessness over other qualities like knowledge, loyalty, and ambition."

"My parents were in Gryffindor," Neville said in a very small tone, staring at the rest of the chocolate in his hand. Harry ignored him, locking death glares with Hermione.

"The greatest Headmaster of our age was a Gryffindor!" Hermione snapped. "So were your parents! What have you got to say to that?"

"Yes, and look how far Gryffindor bravery got them," Harry said, and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. "A pair of matching graves and an orphaned toddler. Let's hear it for Godric's House. Hurrah."

"And I suppose there's a House you'd prefer?" Hermione said icily.

"Gryffindor's really not that bad…" Neville whispered, then cowered back in on himself as both Harry and Hermione turned their matching death glares on him.

"Any of them but Gryffindor!" Harry said with a sharp wave of his hand. He hadn't meant for the argument to get so far out of hand, but Hermione's comment about his parents' House stirred up all the unpleasant feelings he'd been doing his best to suppress ever since reading about their deaths in _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts. _"Hell, even Slytherin with its turnover rate of dark wizards is better than being too stubborn to see when you should graciously back down! Slytherin values ambition and cunning, something that certainly would have served _my parents _a whole lot better than courage!"

Feeling ironically reckless himself at the moment, he launched a final shot, one he figured would be devastating. "I doubt you'd ever see the inside of Slytherin House though. They don't take Muggleborns. Perhaps they don't think non-magic folk can raise children with ambition and cunning."

Hermione reeled as though he'd physically hit her, and a deeper rage than any he'd ever seen save on the face of his uncle rose in her eyes. For a bad moment, he thought she might actually strike him, but with incredible effort, she drew herself back and the tightness in Harry's chest lifted a little.

With her face like a thundercloud, she got to her feet and stalked out of the compartment. Once she was in the hall, she whirled with flashing eyes and hissed, "We'll see how little ambition Muggleborns can have!" a moment before the door slammed with a deafening bang.

Dead silence fell between the two boys. Harry stared angrily at the space Hermione had just vacated, arms folded across his chest. Her satchel stared back at him, almost accusingly and with an inaudible mutter, he forced himself to look somewhere else.

"Harry…" Harry turned his attention to the other boy, and was a bit surprised to see Neville looking so reproachful as he swallowed down the last of his chocolate. The anger was slowly dissipating, leaving him a bit confused as to how it had gotten so heated so quickly.

"That wasn't very kind, Harry," Neville said quietly, and fingered the empty wrapping. "I get it, I do," he continued, looking up with an oddly haunted gleam in his eye. "You're angry about your parents, and it's something that has never really gotten resolved."

"Yeah?" Harry muttered, but there was no heat in his tone anymore. "What would you know about it?"

"Vol… Vol… You-Know-Who didn't just kill your parents, Harry," Neville said, so quietly Harry had to strain to hear him. "I lost mine that night too." In a sudden move, like he'd just decided to do it and better follow through before he lost his nerve, Neville stood and went to the door and opened it. Much like Hermione, he had something more to say before he left. "It's not Hermione's fault. I get why you're mad, but you shouldn't take it out on her, you know." And then he too was gone.

Harry was left in the compartment by himself, now staring at Hermione's abandoned satchel _and _the remnants of Neville's chocolate bar, wondering why he felt like he'd just botched something important up so badly it might never be fixed.

oOoOoOoOo

Harry dozed fitfully after Hermione and Neville left. The bench was far from comfortable enough to really sleep, and every time he found an almost-decent spot, the train jostled, banging his head against the wall. The sun had set somewhere along the way, and when he finally woke fully, the gloom of twilight was settling into the deeper black of night, the train had stopped at a station, and Hermione's satchel was gone.

Harry sat up and stretched, feeling distinctly knotted. He grimaced and worked at his shoulder for a moment, trying to shake out the kinks. A thump let him know the book he'd been reading had fallen off his chest and landed on the floor. He fished around for it on the floor, found it, and shoved it into his satchel.

By the time he made his way through the milling students off the train, the first years were already being led down to the dock of a lake that looked intimidatingly black in the dark, where a dozen or so lantern-helmed boats floated quietly. He raced to catch up, the books in his bag bruising his side, and made it to the group just as the first half a dozen boats were launched. He caught sight of Hermione chattering away to a disinterested looking trio of girls on one boat, and Neville hunched over in another with Ron Weasley and two black boys.

Harry ended up sharing the last boat with a pair of pretty identical Indian girls and a female troll with a square-jawed face who towered head and shoulders above him. She seemed content to ignore Harry, so Harry offered her the same courtesy.

More than an hour later, they had finally made it to the castle's massive front door. Despite the few bits of sleep he'd managed to catch, Harry was tired, not to mention starving, and standing outside the castle with the rest of the shivering group, having waited through Professor McGonagall's mini-lecture on the purpose of the Houses of Hogwarts, only to wait more as she pranced off to see if "they were ready for you". Whatever that meant.

Harry shifted irritatedly, rubbing his arms through the cloth of his robe. Though it was only early September, the breeze off the lake put a definite chill in the air. "How can they not be ready for us?" he grumbled to the redheaded boy standing beside him. "They've known we were coming for months, haven't they?"

"Dunno what ta tell ya, friend," the boy said, with a distinct Irish lilt. He grinned. "Maybe they jus' want ta intimidate us. Give us a proper feel for our place at th' bottom o' th' food chain, aye?"

"Whatever they're doing, it's stupid," he muttered. "I suppose next they're going to frog-march us through the assembled students, just because they can."

The boy laughed. "Aye, that's what my sis told me happens," he said. "She finished up here two years ago." He stuck out his hand. "Terry Quinn, hopin' for Ravenclaw. You?"

Harry cautiously shook his hand, recalling another redhead only a few hours ago who'd turned into a drooling fan when he found out who Harry was. "Harry Potter," he said guardedly. "No House preference."

Terry blinked. "Really?" At Harry's guarded nod, he grinned. "Pleasure ta meet ya, mate. Read a lot about ya in th' books." Harry braced for the request to show off his scar he was positive was coming. But Terry just grinned wider and winked. "Thought ya'd be taller."

Harry gaped in absolute astonishment, but was prevented from responding by the return of McGonagall, announcing that the first years were to follow her in a quiet and orderly fashion. He lost track of Terry somewhere in the shuffle, ending up walking beside a blonde girl who looked at him once and sniffed dismissively.

The massive double doors opened to reveal what Harry assumed to be the Great Hall, with four long, long tables absolutely filled with students. Candles floated in the air, as though suspended by invisible wires, and fires burned in multiple hearths along two walls, lending a cheery, warm glow to the scene. Overhead wheeled a startlingly clear representation of the night sky, complete with clouds and all, and from halfway up the line, Harry heard Hermione's voice telling someone how she'd read all about it in _Hogwarts: A History_.

The group followed McGonagall straight to the front, where on a raised step before the teacher's table was a single three-legged stool that held a battered, sagging leather hat. McGonagall made some further announcements that Harry didn't bother paying attention to, and stepped back to let everyone have unimpeded view of the hat.

"I love this part of the Welcoming Feast," he heard someone at the tables behind him say loudly, and a roll of laughter passed through the assembly.

Without warning, in the middle of that laughter, the hat shifted all by itself on the stool, a fold above the brim opened into a mouth, and it started to sing and dance, much to the first years' shock and delight.

_  
Welcome, welcome, welcome_

_To Hogwarts Wizards' School_

_I bet you all are thinking_

_You're being taken for a fool_

_But rest assured, your eyes see true_

_Believe what they do see_

_A dancing hat, a singing hat_

_The Sorting Hat – that's me!_

_Since Hogwarts was constructed_

_A thousand years ago_

_It's been my job to sort you out_

_And see where you should go_

_Just put me on, I'll have a look_

_A peek inside your mind_

_Step right up, now don't be shy_

_Let's see what we will find._

_If your heart is stalwart_

_And your convictions are all strong_

_Then in Godric's house of Gryffindor_

_Is where you best belong._

_But maybe not! It's possible_

_That once the shock abates, _

_It will be in Helga's loyal house_

_You'll find your best of mates._

_But if your pulse is quickening _

_At thoughts of books and lore_

_Then Ravenclaw's the house for you_

_Where learning is no chore._

_Or might you be a Slytherin,_

_With cunning coming out your ears?_

_You might discover the truest path _

_In that lofty house of peers._

_So ickle firsties, look around_

_And wonder where you'll sit._

_Then come right up and put me on._

_I'll tell you where you fit!_

Barely had the hat fallen silent before McGonagall unfurled her scroll and called out for "Abbott, Hannah" to come to the front. A tiny girl with blonde pigtails nervously pushed her way to the front and approached the bench. Harry watched as the hat was placed on her head; barely had it touched her hair when it called out "HUFFLEPUFF!"

More students were called in alphabetical order, and the hat mulled them each over as they sat on the stool. Some decisions were instantaneous; some took nearly a minute or more. Harry quickly lost interest in the whole process, choosing instead to stare up at the enchanted ceiling until Goyle, Gregory went into Hufflepuff, to a smattering of applause from the tables behind the group.

His attention snapped round again as "Granger, Hermione!" was called out. Hermione proudly marched to the stool, sat primly and laid the Sorting Hat on her head. The by-now expectant hush fell over the crowd as they waited for the hat's announcement. None was immediately forthcoming, but after nearly a minute, Hermione's face screwed up in focused determination. Another minute went by, and the students began to murmur. Near the three minute mark, when even McGonagall looked like she wanted to fidget, the hat finally announced, "SLYTHERIN", but it didn't sound overly pleased at the decision.

A smattering of halfhearted applause broke out, and Harry didn't miss that the Slytherin table, usually so eager to welcome their new recruits, seemed about as pleased as the hat with the choice. Hermione smiled brightly, took off the hat, and fairly skipped to her new table, apparently completely oblivious to their less-than-warm welcome. As she passed Harry by, she beamed smugly at him, as if to say, "Take_ that _for your presumptions, you smarmy arse". Harry gave her a shrug back, wondering if she really understood what she had gotten herself into.

"Longbottom, Neville!"

Gulping, Neville moved to take his turn at the hat, pale and shivering. He tripped as he was ascending the single step, and nearly toppled McGonagall over with him. By the time he got the hat on his head, there was outright laughter from the students.

Neville took nearly as long as Hermione, but by the two minute mark, he wasn't looking so much determined as outright panicked. He kept shaking his head violently, and Harry didn't have to be a lipreader to know he was saying _no no no_ over and over again. His skin was practically grey it was so pale.

"SLYTHERIN!" the hat announced. Scattered, astonished applause broke out from the Slytherin table, and disbelieving murmurs erupted from most of the other tables. Looking like he was about to pass out or vomit—or both – Neville yanked the hat off his head and staggered his way over to the other members of his new House.

The Indian twins with whom Harry had shared a boat for a little under an hour were up next, the first going to Ravenclaw, the second to Gryffindor. Both Houses received their new member with heartfelt applause.

"Potter, Harry!"

The whispers began even before he started moving. As he passed by Ron Weasley, he heard him whisper to the girl beside him, "Met him on the train. He let me see his scar." Harry just rolled his eyes and shoved through just a bit harder than he intended, nearly sending another girl, a tiny brunette, to the floor.

Virtually every instructor was watching him, one or two practically leaning over the table to get a good view, and he could feel his every move being scrutinized by the hundreds of students at his back. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. _Think of the other schools. Foxton. Durmstrang. Chaldean. You don't have to stay where they stare at you like a freak. _

The hat touched his head a moment after he sat, and for a second he felt nothing, heard nothing. He shifted on the stool, watching the school watch him, and wondered if this was all just a big joke.  
_  
If it is, _said a voice in his mind quite suddenly, _it's not on you. _Harry jumped, looking wildly around, and the voice chuckled. _Another Potter, eh? Well… it's been, oh, twenty years or so since I last had to Sort one of you. Different mind than the last one, though. _Very _different mind. You smack of difficulty, boy. It's been awhile since I've had a proper challenge. _

The hat shifted on his head, and Harry felt the most peculiar sensation, like phantom fingers had suddenly shot into his temples and were now rummaging through his memories. Every dream, desire, ambition, hope, fear… they were all shuffled together like playing cards, then sorted through and pinned on an imaginary wall like crime scene photos. It wasn't exactly painful, but it was hardly pleasant either.  
_  
You _are_ quite the complicated sort, aren't you? _the hat said. _It's all right here. You don't lack for courage. Not a bad mind either. And there's a thirst… a desperate thirst to prove yourself. But where to put you? _

"Anywhere but Gryffindor will do," Harry muttered.  
_  
Not Gryffindor, eh? Are you sure? Gryffindor could help you on your path to greatness, you know. Won't lack for friends in that House. The Boy-Who-Lived could go far as a Gryffindor._

"I don't want reckless idiots as friends," he replied. "Or anyone who sees me as their damned anointed one. Just hurry up and Sort me already. They're still staring."

The Hat tightened around his temples. _There was another who passed through me a few decades ago, _it said. _Much the same drive. Much the same attitude. Think you know better than the old Hat, eh? Ha! So did he, and look where it got him. Let's see how you fare following in his footsteps. _"SLYTHERIN!"

Judging from the flabbergasted expressions on the entire hall's population, that last bit had been out loud. The Gryffindors in particular alternated between shocked, heartbroken and betrayed, depending on which face he was looking at. The Slytherins likewise looked like they really didn't know how to react, though they were quicker by far than most of the others at hiding their expressions. Still, Harry was quick enough to catch horror, fascination and downright hostility before the cool, indifferent masks slid back into place.

He glanced up at the head table, wondering how the teachers were taking his Sorting. Dumbledore's face was unreadable, Hagrid looked crushed and McGonagall still at the stool looked disappointed. A lank-haired man whose name Harry didn't know appeared on the verge of an apoplectic fit as his gaze jerked between Hermione and Neville, sitting a little apart from the other first year Slytherins, and Harry, still on the stool.

All in all, not the best start to the school year. Harry slid off the stool, forcing himself to think happy thoughts about how many other schools were eager to instruct him. He calmly placed the chortling hat back on the stool, turned, and walked in deathly silence to sit with his new Housemates.


End file.
